Across the sea
by dreamingfate
Summary: Having found All Blue and established the restaurant of his dreams, Sanji does some reflecting. Zoro/Sanji, Sanji/Zoro


After coming back to check on the account for the first time in a year or so, I'm amazed and delighted that these stories still have readers. Here's a little something as thanks.

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Sanji stared out across the sea. The waves rode in towards him, breaking themselves against the sides of the All Blue Restaurant Ship with leaps of spray. They were a beckoning call he was unable to answer.

Between lunch and dinner sittings there would be a brief lull, where the bustle of the restaurant died down enough for the cooks to take turns eating. At this time of day Sanji would go out to the aft deck to smoke a cigarette and have fifteen minutes to himself. He would watch the ships come over the horizon, each one bearing the promise of returning something from his past. When docked they had nothing more to offer him than customers and food critics, trouble-makers and chancers.

A passing schooner caught the sun, its sails glowing brilliant white. He imagined himself aboard it, listening to the flapping of the flag, the creaking of the mast as the sails snapped taut with the wind, a cloud of seagulls circling and wheeling for a chance of scraps. Sanji didn't regret his decision to leave the pirate life one bit. His restaurant was a tremendous success, everything he'd dreamed it would be. He'd even made his old man proud. But every day he would look forward to this one moment where he could have chance to separate himself from all that he'd achieved and think himself far away, to another time, another place, where he'd once been one piece of a greater whole, one part of a bigger story. To where the salt on his lips had been from more than just the sea air.

One of his sous-chefs came to call him in, and he flicked the remains of his cigarette overboard. He wondered if Zoro ever thought of him.

In the kitchen his crew were gearing up for dinner after the three-o-clock break. The wide, spacious galley housed fifty chefs, all peeling, chopping, stirring, marinading together, laughing, arguing over the occasional close-proximity flambé, the hum of their activity underpinning the beat of his sous-chefs' barked instructions. Dishes were piled and filled with perfect, mouth-watering food to be collected and carried through the doors, whisked out to the dining hall with deft balance and a deserved amount of flare. Not once had food ever been returned to Sanji's kitchen.

The warmth of the day brought his thoughts back to good-byes, and the tiny single-bedroom seaside shack they'd been made in. He'd always known the day would come where he parted ways with Luffy. He'd travelled with the Straw Hats for years, given his all to fight for and protect them, made their dreams his own and known they had done the same, but always that day had been there, just below the horizon. The little shack had been a leaving present from Franky, something that allowed them to leave him in the knowledge he was taken care of. Franky had wanted to build him something grander, but Sanji insisted on saving wood for his restaurant. He'd wished them farewell with the sunlight humming through the windows.

Zoro had stayed behind after the rest had started down the beach back to the ship. He and Zoro hadn't known what to say to each other. In the deafening silence their good-bye-so-long translated itself into the language they both understood best, and Zoro had taken Sanji one last time against the rough walls of the unfamiliar space, making it theirs. Pressed together in the afterglow, Sanji embraced in Zoro's lap, amongst the confused urgency of Zoro needing to leave and the equivalent pull of preserving the last moment they might ever be together, Sanji had thought briefly of asking Zoro to stay.

It passed like any other moment; no more or less remarkable. Afterwards he'd walked Zoro a little way down the beach towards where the Sunny was moored, stopping part way, realising without a word the line of boundary between his old and his new life. Zoro had carried on, head down and looking at his feet. About half-way between Sanji and the Sunny, Zoro stopped and turned. Perhaps to say something, perhaps to return to Sanji and the humble little shack from which Sanji's dreams would sprout. With the sun behind him Zoro's expression was inscrutable, but his hand gripped the white sword he'd decided should be returned to his friend's father. Ever a man governed by duty. Zoro climbed aboard the Sunny, and Sanji went to nurture his dream.

It hadn't been an easy dream to get off the ground, but what was the point of a dream if you didn't have to sweat for it? The All Blue Restaurant had taken a year to build from Franky's plans, but when finished it was magnificent. That time had given Sanji opportunity to travel the local islands, sampling their dishes, discovering new flavours and developing new recipes. The sea had brought new lovers and fantastic affairs, but he was secretly thankful for their brevity. He'd come to realise the bachelor lifestyle suited him best.

He thought of the Straw Hats often, wondering what they were doing, reading the daily newspaper front-to-back for any hint of information. He collected their bounty sheets and kept them safely in a drawer. Zoro's came out for light relief more frequently than Sanji would have liked, and each time he tormented himself trying to remember how it felt when Zoro's hands had touched him, how it felt to take him and be taken by him, the sound of Zoro's voice and how it could infuriate him one minute and get him hard the next. He felt as though by re-living those memories he sped up their decay, like a book re-read until the stiff pages began to crumble.

Day after day he would watch the boats come in, entertaining the hope that any of them could be carrying that one unforgettable lover who would never come back to him.

The sous-chef beside him cleared his throat. Sanji wondered how long the sous-chef been there. Then he realised the kitchen was bathed in oppressive silence, all eyes on him, waiting.

'A customer sent his food back, Chef.'

A trembling waiter stood in front of the kitchen doors, hanging his head, avoiding eye contact as though it was his fault. Sanji took the plate, inspected it, tasted it. Just as perfect as any other dish that had ever left his kitchen.

'What did our dear shitty customer have to say?' Sanji asked the waiter, in the kindest voice he could manage. The waiter bit his lip. Sanji repeated his question.

'He said, "tell that shitty curly-brow cook, if this is what his restaurant's serving, he isn't even fit to serve food on a Marine dinghy".'


End file.
